My Garden Is On Fire

A world
A thorned world
With happiness
emanating
Its peaks
Mountains
Its sadness
Valleys
Canyons that do not end

My mind is like a garden on fire
Burning
Burning
My garden is black
It is charred
Like clouds 
Throwing dark shadows
Obscuring the truth
 

butterfly castles

the butterfly castles
were the king's 
before he abandoned the throne,
left Laervia, went mad, and died 
no one could blame him,
he would have gone mad either way
that was before before they came
before all of us died
before I lost my heart 
all they want is our hearts
our very souls
the essence,
some say
but they took the bodies for dessert
only I survived
living in the ruins of what used to be life
what is in my future is no longer a secret
my destiny is revealed
how could no one notice when so much of me was missing?
but there is no one here to know-
so I went ahead and lived what was left of life
which is like drinking from a shattered glass
thousands of butterfly castles
gone to waste
for they will come for 
me,
too.

Abandoned....
Vermont without slopes
abandoned....
rivers without fish
Abandoned 
in Bedminster 

Lost,
lost
alone 
unfair
suddenly gone 
a gaping hole
with ragged edges
Abandoned in Bedminster.
 

Quiet

In quiet places,

even in the quietest little nooks,

there is always a roar of unspoken words and memories.

For the quietest places are the most curious.

Laugh

I stare at the splintered wood
of the little chair I like to sit in
and it reminds me of Goldilocks,
and that makes me laugh.

Look

Look at the dawn,how the crest of the hill meets the horizon...how I wish I could preserve it

Look at the morning, the doe stepping so elegantly...how I wish I could picture it until my days are done

Look at the afternoon, the sky a calm blue, the sun itself seems to be relaxing...I know I will always treasure the sight as long as I live

Look at the evening, the pink, orange, and red unfold before your eyes...your eyes widen at the sight

Look at the night, how the stars brighten the sky, and now you lay in bed thinking of the previous wonders...and the ones yet to come.

chair

A chair I have loved,

has stood for ages it seems,

As I write this poem,

I curl my bare feet around its sturdy limbs.

my words hand in hand, slowly spin into

a soft pursuit of happiness, as a weaver cast

its yarn  into a loom.

my letters click into place and soon

they  finish their job.